


catatonic sex toy love joy diver

by untouchableocean



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Esteban - Freeform, M/M, as is checo, charles is a sad sad prostitute with a dirty apartment, i didnt want to clog the tags, it does that freeform shit automatically with the tags, its set in france, kimi - Freeform, max - Freeform, oh boy so, oh well, sigh, so i shall pop them here, theres a bunch of ppl in this for like one scene so, toto is mentioned once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableocean/pseuds/untouchableocean
Summary: Crop-tops turned to cocktail dresses, shorts turned to fishnets, lollipops turned to cigarettes, and his life turned to a blurry mess of tears and drugs and cum faster than he could say “sorry, mum.”
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 64





	catatonic sex toy love joy diver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ricciardhoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardhoes/gifts), [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/gifts).

> dedicated to malter, from whom i stole this idea, and meg, whose response to being sent this was 'OH MY RIEJKGTEOHDFGJBKEOHIFGOID'. i love you broskis x
> 
> the title is from stella was a diver and she was always down by interpol which is a song about...a prostitute. funnily enough. i had it on repeat while writing this.

If you’d asked Charles Leclerc at fifteen what he thought he’d be doing in six years, whoring himself out to pay his bills wouldn’t be very high on the list. He’d say something like “well, I’ll be in university, studying to get the hell out of here, obviously.” However, life doesn’t always work like that, and it turned out that to get into university you actually had to pass your exams, and Charles was apparently too lost in the clouds to do that.

He dropped out of school at seventeen, out of his parents’ lives at eighteen, and into depression at around the same time. He hadn’t meant to dive into prostitution, it had just seemed like a good idea at the time, an uncomplicated way to make a quick buck, but eventually he’d found himself addicted to the feeling of being wanted. Crop-tops turned to cocktail dresses, shorts turned to fishnets, lollipops turned to cigarettes, and his life turned to a blurry mess of tears and drugs and cum faster than he could say  _ “sorry, mum.” _

-

He doesn’t really have  _ established _ regulars like some of the others, but he has people who come back a lot. Well, if he HAD to he could call them regulars, but he doesn’t like to; without regulars, it gives the illusion that he can leave any time he wants, and he’s not too deep down the manhole.

Kimi comes round every few weeks or so, brandishing a bottle of Finlandia and a packet of cigarettes that Charles thinks cost more than he does. Max comes less often than he’d like him to, but when he does, he’s always got a new bag of lingerie and a cloud hanging over his head that Charles never quite manages to see rain. And Daniel...Daniel’s in love with him. Which is awkward, but it’s fine, because he’s still paying.

Charles hugs his knees to his chest and lights another cigarette off the end of the last one, much to the chagrin of Daniel. He sits up and looks at Charles, and Charles can’t bring himself to turn his head, knowing he’ll only try and lose himself in Daniel’s hopeless eyes. The room fills with smoke and Charles feels he should say something, but instead he gets out of bed and heads out to the balcony, shutting the door behind him.

The city sparkles below him, and the sight disgusts him. All the glitz and glamour, and he’s just an accessory to the rich bastards who want to enjoy it without the need for actual emotional connection. Ignoring Daniel, of course, who wants way too  _ much _ emotional connection, and it scares Charles a little. He knows Daniel wants to save him from himself, and it would be insulting if it wasn’t exactly what Charles wants.

Daniel is...everything Charles wants. Which is exactly why he can’t have him.

Charles hears his front door click shut, and when he looks back inside, there’s a lonely roll of cash sitting in the middle of the bed.

-

“Lando?”

Lando turns to look at Charles, his eyes twinking despicably in the light. He’s doing his make-up with a night out with some mega rich son of a rally driver, Carlos or something, and he’s gone with...baby pink lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Oh dear, he’s never been great at this.

Charles feels a kind of mother hen instinct towards Lando; he’s only nineteen, bless his heart, and he wonders what kind of shit he got up to back home in England that led to him getting chucked out of his house, and what even worse shit led to him ending up as a prostitute in Paris.

They’ve been sharing a flat for a few weeks already - before that he’d actually been staying with Daniel of all people (they had mutual friends) but Charles figured there was only so long Daniel could keep a boy at his apartment without falling in love with him. So when he asked ever so nicely and also promised he’d pay half the rent, Charles agreed to let Lando stay with him.

“Look, you’re never going to-come here, let me do your makeup.”

Lando doesn’t protest, just lets Charles wipe away the blotchy foundation that doesn’t even match his skin tone. It’s not long before Lando’s got a face of gold, subtle yet startlingly noticeable. Lando gently touches his face, fake nails scraping lightly across his cheeks, and he looks like he’s going to cry. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s alright. Have fun on your...date.”

Lando grins and stumbles out of the room, off to pull on his heels and meet his date at the train station in a blaze of flowers and jewels and God knows what else. Charles tries not to think about it too much. Luckily, just as Lando’s leaving, someone else arrives - Kimi lands at his door bang on time, and Charles wastes exactly zero seconds letting him slam him against a wall, banishing every thought he’s had tonight in a wave of cock-induced therapy.

-

Charles hasn’t been out on the street for months, but Esteban had asked and he felt bad leaving him out there on his own. It’s miserable and cold but he knows very well what can happen if you go alone. Esteban taps his fingers in a jerky rhythm against his bare thigh, and Charles tugs his fluffy coat further closed.

“How the hell aren’t you cold?”

Esteban is somehow only wearing a tanktop and frankly  _ hideous _ denim booty shorts, meanwhile Charles is wearing a low rise jeans and a fur coat Daniel bought him and he’s  _ still _ shaking.

“The fire inside is keeping me warm.”

Charles rolls his eyes so far back that he’s sure he just saw his empty skull.

“The fucking what?”

Esteban shrugs and breathes out a cloud of condensation. Charles looks down for a second before shooting his head up to look at Esteban.

“Oh my god, you’re in love with one of your guys.”

“I am NOT!” Esteban cries in a way that very much screams  _ “yes, I am.” _

“Esteban, this isn’t good.”

“Look, I’m fine, I know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing this longer than you have.”

He’s right, but he still doesn’t trust him. He’s not known for his rational decision making, and he’d almost dropped off the face of the earth last year before Toto took him in.

“Wait, is it Toto?”

“No.”

Hm. The no was sincere this time, and Charles starts whirling through the rolodex in his mind of all of Esteban’s regulars.

“Is it...is it that Mexican guy?”

Esteban looks down blushing and Charles knows he’s got him. He revels in the satisfaction of catching him on the second guess before suddenly being brought sharply back to reality.

“Esteban, he’s married.”

“So?”

Jesus Christ.

“So, he’s not going to leave his wife for you or whatever.”

“I never said he was going to!”

Charles rolls his eyes again.

“You were thinking it.”

Esteban closes his lips into a thin line and looks at the road, cheeks pink from both embarrassment and the bitter wind.

“I think he loves me too.” Charles opens his mouth to argue but Esteban keeps going. “Just because he doesn’t say it doesn’t mean he doesn’t!”

Charles wants to fight, wants to tell Esteban to stop thinking like that, but he stops short. He doesn’t want Esteban to get hurt by anyone, including himself. He sighs and leans back against the wall, listlessly lighting a cigarette.

“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?”

Esteban looks down and nods.

“I always wait here.”

“Did he text you?”

“No, I just...look, there’s his car.”

A black Aston Martin rolls up and Esteban jumps in the front seat, leaving Charles alone in the cold. He considers staying out, but his saving grace suddenly buzzes in his pocket;

_ Incoming call from: danny boy _

He wonders why he ever let Daniel set his own name in his phone. Once he’d gotten his phone back he’d taken out the cowboy and eggplant emojis, but left the name. It feels authentic, somehow. More human than  _ Daniel - work phone _ .

_ “Hey, you around tonight?” _

“Depends, are you paying?”

_ “Don’t I always?” _

Charles sighs.

“Can you come to mine? I don’t want to make the journey tonight.”

He knows Daniel will say yes, he’d never ask the same of another client. Kimi, maybe, but only if he wanted to have a fifty-fifty chance of ever seeing anyone he loves ever again.

_ “Sure. See you in a few.” _

“Wait, Daniel?”

_ “Yeah?” _

He licks his lips, a weird feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach. He thinks back to Esteban’s little monologue -  _ just because he doesn’t say it doesn’t mean he doesn’t _ \- and curses himself. He also curses Esteban for good measure, but he’s done that enough for a lifetime already.

“Nothing. I forgot, never mind. See you at mine.”

_ “Gangsta. See ya.” _

He hangs up and Charles wants to throw his phone in the road.

-

“Change of plan, we’re going to mine.”

Charles blinks at Daniel, too tired to argue. Five minutes later he’s speeding through the streets of Paris in Daniel’s latest favourite sports car. Charles has lost count of how many he’s gotten through this year alone, and he runs his hands over the cream leather interior, trying desperately not to feel too jealous; although, what’s another deadly sin on top of the rest?

Charles looks out of the window as the city blurs past and he sinks back into the seat, forcing his eyes to stay open and ignoring the ticking clock on the dashboard. This car probably costs more than he makes in a year. They turn into the parking lot at Daniel’s apartment complex and Charles looks at the floor, ignoring the copious amounts of expensive cars that litter the concrete hall.

Daniel’s apartment is as messy as it usually is; despite the high ceilings and floor length windows and marble countertops it somehow always feels lived in, loved. Charles shudders. Is he jealous of an  _ apartment?  _ Daniel leads through to the lounge and Charles goes to shoulder off his jacket when he realises it’s Daniel’s, and he’s not sure when he started wearing it but he finds himself unable to take it off.

“Charles.”

He’d recognise that voice anywhere. Pierre jumps up from the sofa, pulling Charles into a bear hug as soon as he’s stepped into the room.

“I tried calling you, but I couldn’t get through, and you weren’t at your apartment, and I was just worried and-”

“Shh, it’s alright, I’m fine.”

Pierre’s always worried too much. They were childhood friends turned lovers turned friends again - they’d had a  _ thing _ in high school but it had ended when Pierre had headed to university and Charles had headed into the gutter. They’d lost their virginities to each other and Charles thinks that’s as close as he’ll ever get to a true unbreakable connection with someone.

Pierre had ended up becoming a police officer, and Charles figures that a whore and a cop was possibly one of the weirdest friendships he can imagine. Pierre’s always offering him outs but Charles knows they’re only temporary, and he knows Pierre won’t try and arrest any of his customers so long as he asks nicely. That’s Pierre’s fundamental problem; he’s too nice. Far too nice.

“What’s so urgent that you’re so freaked out about finding me? We only saw each other like...”

It’s at this moment Charles realises he doesn’t know when he last saw Pierre.

“Two months ago. You haven’t responded to any of my texts. That’s why I got Daniel to text you.”

Charles turns to see Daniel backing away into the kitchen, seemingly avoiding this conversation. Charles’ mind spins and he tries to remember if he’s been ignoring Pierre on purpose or he’s just an idiot.

“Did I get a new phone?”

Pierre leads him down onto the sofa and takes his hand, and Charles blinks away the fuzz in his vision. This can’t be good.

“Charles, it’s your father.”

Charles blinks again. He’s not spoken to his dad in years.

“Wh...what about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Oh.

He wants to cry. He knows he wants to cry, but his tear ducts are sealed shut, and he doesn’t know how to respond at all. He blinks once, twice, thrice, trying to summon an emotion other than a vague wave of regret. He gets up and blindly heads to the kitchen, ignoring Daniel (who’s eating a mildly disgusting looking sandwich) and going straight for the alcohol cabinet.

The first bottle he pulls out is a bottle of Finlandia, and he hates that he thinks of Kimi as he flicks the lid off and starts to chug. It’s sickening, and the tears start to form at his eyes as he downs more and more and he’s only vaguely aware of Daniel pulling the bottle away and catching him as he trips over his own feet. Daniel puts the bottle on the countertop and lifts Charles’ helpless form into his arms, and Charles doesn’t resist as Daniel carries him to his room, dumping him in the bed and tucking him in to sleep.

-

Is he dead? He feels dead. Then again, Charles reckons he’s felt dead for years now, so what’s the difference anyhow? He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his palms into his eye sockets, letting the colourful blobs of light bloom on the insides of his eyelids, miniature fireworks for his soul.

The pain blossoms on his neck (as do, he imagines, the bruises) and he rolls over on the hardwood floor, groaning softly as he takes a rattly breath. So, not dead then. A light shines into his face from in front of his palms and he mumbles something like “don’t shoot” as he hears footsteps thunder into his apartment.

A hand brushes over his own and he slowly lets his hands fall to the floor, opening his eyes to see the sad yet familiar face of Pierre staring back at him. There’s no shiny badge on his chest, but there is a bulletproof vest that says POLICE across it, which drags him back down to earth a little. He goes to get up but his head spins and spins and spins and before he knows it, he’s being scooped up in Pierre’s arms and carried out of his apartment.

The flourescent lights of his apartment building flicker and pop above him, and the last thing he thinks before he passes out is  _ “fuck, did I even get paid for that?” _

-

When he comes to, the first thing he sees is Pierre slumped over asleep on his sofa. That means he’s in his own bed, which reassures him that his injuries aren’t too bad. The second thing he sees is Daniel, sitting right besides him, red rimmed eyes staring through him. Charles tries to move but his whole body aches, like he’s been beaten all over with a baseball bat. For all he knows, he was. Not like he remembers anything.

“I thought you were dead. You’re lucky Lando was home to call the cops.”

Charles slowly reaches out for Daniel’s hand and laces their fingers in a display of tenderness that comes frighteningly naturally.

“If you really thought I was dead, I’d be in hospital.”

“You think I trust them with you?”

Charles blushes at Daniel’s clear disregard for every single piece of medical advice he’s sure was thrown at him, which for some reason he finds attractive.

“I’m sorry.”

It hurts to talk a little, his throat is tender but luckily it’s not too bad.

“It’s not your fault.”

Charles wonders when the last time someone said that to him was. He slowly pushes himself up until he’s sitting properly. He tries to get out of bed but Daniel stops him, and Charles sighs and looks at him with his best puppy eyes face.

“I need a fag.”

Daniel acquiesces and helps him up, leading him to the balcony and watching with vague despondency as he lights up.

“How much longer are you going to put yourself through this?”

Charles shrugs.

“Until I make enough to get out of here.”

“It’s not about that though, is it?” Charles doesn’t respond. “How many times have I offered you an out, hm? How many times has Pierre offered to help? Every time you turn us down, talking about how bad you feel, how you can’t take our money, it’s not right, well how do you think that makes us feel? We have to watch you waste away, selling yourself to these fucking assholes and-”

“Well, let’s not forget you were one of those fucking assholes too.”

“Charles, I love you.”

“I know you do.”

“Let me help you, please!”

“I don’t need your fucking help! I can stop whenever I want, get a real job, whatever.”

Daniel scoffs.

“Please, just...do it then. Stop doing this. Come live with me.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck- “Because of my regulars, what if I just disappeared off the face of the earth, what would they do?”

Daniel laughs incredulously, and Charles feels sick.

“They’d find someone else to put their dick in.” Charles flinches. “Charles, look at yourself. You were almost killed.”

“So fucking what? Maybe I want to die.”

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“I’ll say what I want.”

He stubs out his cigarette and stumbles back inside, making a beeline for the alcohol cabinet. He’s distantly aware of Daniel shouting at him but it’s Pierre who wrestles the bottle from his hands and pulls him back into the main room, and he doesn’t know what to do other than cry and cry and cry until he doesn’t know how to breathe anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> this is what i as an author will call an "ambiguous ending", but you as readers may recognise as "el auteur wanted to hurry up and post this so it was out of their drafts but didnt fully know how to end it'.
> 
> and scene. *bows*


End file.
